JUNIOR

The Coronavirus impact has hit home. After a few days of serious suffering and testing positive, Joaquin, my number two son, has rebounded. He is exercising and evaluates himself at 95%. But that is the only good news. The pandemic is lashing Brownsville and the Rio Grande Valley like a category five hurricane. Humans, like palm trees, are crashing to the ground. In my network of friends and acquaintances, seven persons have died in the last week and a longtime drinking buddy is, as the Mexicans say, debating between life and death. The cruelest blow of all has been the passing of Jose "Junior" Sanchez, who in his prime was simply known as Junior, his one-name fame reminiscent of the Brazilian soccer players a la Pelé. For those who respect my small accomplishments in Brownville, Junior as well as many others from his generation and backgrounds, gave me a credibility and respect that endure to this day.

In my oft-related autobiography that my few readers could dictate by heart, I arrived a complete stranger in April of 1975 following a lead learned in Mexico that the school district was desperate for teachers. The rumor proved true. From the fall of 1975 to the spring of 1977 I taught English to tattooed hoodlums and pregnant teenagers before I quit disgusted with my own incompetency and found a fulltime position as a sports writer at The Brownsville Herald. In the wake of a series of backstabbing incidents, I emerged unscathed as the newspaper's sports editor. Besides covering games and composing features, I took my first steps at a writer by penning a column three times a week entitled The Peerless Observer. I was raised reading columnists for The San Francisco Chronicle and The San Francisco Chronicle. They took no prisoners. Their commentary brought the city to life for someone living in Sacramento. Born and bred for controversy, I brought head football coaches to their knees, four or the six head coaches I dragged through the mud after losing game after game 49-0 losing their jobs at the end of the season.

To make a long story short, I quit after a year and wandered throughout Texas, California, Mexico and Central America for two years. I supported myself by landing journalism jobs in all these locales. I found myself back in Brownsville and unemployed. I returned to the BISD as an English Second Language (ESL) teacher. I slowly learned the craft and remained with the district for 37 more years. On the social ladder the ESL students ranked at the bottom rung of the social ladder in a community 95% Hispanic. Their fellow Mexican-Americans thought of them as no better than wetback. It wouldn't be far-fetched to muse that Klansmen had higher opinions of African-Americans. Ostracized, they were the pariah of the border as they tried to navigate a multi-culture environment that exceeded being Mexicans adjusting to their status in the United States. But they all shared an abiding quality--they were the sweetest kids. As the first gringo to attain prominence in their lives, I fascinated them. I would tell them that they were mesmerized by my blue eyes and they would chuckle.